


Selfish Virtues

by CriseydetheTraitor



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Crossover, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27553216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CriseydetheTraitor/pseuds/CriseydetheTraitor
Summary: This oneshot explores a kind of alternate universe where Astrid of the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim becomes the hero of Ferelden during the main plot of Dragon Age: Origins. For the sake of this plot, I have made Skyrim one of the nations of Thedas, rather than Tamriel. I imagine that it is close to where the Anderfels are in the Dragon Age universe.Here is the main premise: After Astrid betrays her family and gets the listener killed, Maro decides to execute her in Solitude rather than allowing her to burn to death with the rest of her family. However, because a blight is raging in Ferelden, Duncan of the Grey Wardens is searching tirelessly for recruits. He spares Astrid's life, and it is up to her to stop Ferelden's blight. Along the way, she finds herself drawn to the mysterious sorceress, Morrigan, and drama ensues.
Relationships: Astrid (Elder Scrolls)/Loghain, Morrigan/Astrid (Elder Scrolls)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Selfish Virtues

Astrid’s attempt to rid the Dark Brotherhood of its Listener is simultaneously a grand success and a grizzly failure. It is a success because the Listener is ultimately slain by Maro’s men outside of Castle Dour. It is a failure because Maro also proceeds to destroy the Falkreath Sanctuary and all who reside within it. All, that is, except for Astrid. For her, he devises a finer punishment: to be drawn and quartered in the center of Solitude before an assembled crowd. As the guards watch her awaiting this punishment in her prison cell, they think she seems almost resigned to her fate, perhaps grateful that the memory of her Family’s death, still so fresh, will soon die with her. 

On the day of the execution, the crowd is vicious. Though she is shackled and visibly shaken, the assassins’ former leader still maintains a sense of dignity, one that disgusts the onlookers. Men swear and women, seemingly terrified that a creature of their own sex could embrace murder in such a way, cross themselves with fear as she approaches. Even the children spit into the dirt to show their displeasure at the sight of this woman. As she raises her extraordinary grey eyes to meet theirs, they find her expression unfathomable. The wind whips her blonde hair about her face. One of the men in the crowd, who has often heard of the mistress of the Dark Brotherhood’s great beauty, cries out, “Show us her tits, headsman! Show us her tits before she goes.” 

At this, Astrid’s expression shifts from unnervingly calm to alarmed. Seeing instantly that the man has hit a nerve, many of the remaining men in the crowd take up that chant, and the headsman smiles. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have one more glance at them, seeing as she’s soon to be in pieces. Might be nice to see the beautiful work of the Gods once more.” He inches toward Astrid, hungrily reaching forward to remove her shroud. Astrid squirms viciously, but her movements, which might be formidable without her bindings, do not allow her to achieve any headway. 

The throng leans forward, like one great beast about to devour its prey, but they are suddenly interrupted by the sound of a man’s deep voice, “Enough! I say this must stop at once.” The voice is sonorous, as enchanting as it is authoritative. In spite of themselves, people stop shouting, as though a spell has been thrust upon them. From the middle of the throng comes a tall, athletic looking fellow, handsome with olive skin and light eyes. When the people of Solitude lay eyes on him, they find themselves surprised that they have not noticed him before. He is, after all, rather unlike the local Northmen. As he reaches the stage on which Astrid’s execution is to take place, he makes an announcement, his clear voice cutting through the chill of the early Skyrim morning: “I am Duncan of the Grey Wardens, and I invoke the right of conscription. As many of you have no doubt heard, there is a blight in Ferelden. I have been traveling, searching for recruits. I believe this woman would be ideal.”

There are gasps—of surprise and disapproval. Still, no one protests. The Grey Wardens’ history of recruiting unsavory sorts even during ordinary times is well known, and no one is particularly surprised that the organization is searching for new members all over the continent to counteract Ferelden’s growing Darkspawn blight. There is, even now, a kind of respect for the Wardens, and what they are capable of accomplishing.  
Duncan’s bright eyes meet Astrid’s as the headsman reluctantly unshackles her. In a surprisingly soft voice, she asks, “Why are you doing this?”

Duncan does not reply. He motions for Astrid to follow him, and, after a moment, she does, never once looking back at the crowd that so eagerly sought her death. She has never believed she would leave her homeland, but, with the image of Arnbjorn’s bloody death seared into her mind, she knows Skyrim will never be home again. 

xxx  
She passes the Joining without issue, though the two men invited to undergo the process with her die. Astrid enjoys watching them choke on the taint, reminds herself that they are weaker than she is. Back in leather armor, she feels almost in her element—in the moments in which she succeeds in pushing the screams of her fallen family from her mind, that is. After the Joining, that foolish boy, Alistair, asks if she is all right. As if she could ever be all right again. When the Grey Wardens fall at Ostagar, she feels the same rush of relief flood over her that she felt first in Solitude’s prison. She knows then how badly she still wants to die. As the Darkspawn overwhelm her in the Tower of Ishal, she hopes to close her eyes forever, a privilege that is cruelly denied her when she wakes hours later to find herself in a simple, rustic shack in the middle of the wilderness. 

In the center of the room is a woman who is quite young. Her yellow eyes unsettle the assassin, but not in a way that frightens her. She is, after all, convinced that nothing truly frightens her anymore. The woman’s raven hair, lithe figure, and Chasind appearance make her seem wild, unpredictable. For the first time in what seems an eternity, Astrid almost smiles. When the young woman tells her of the battle and the deaths of the noble Grey Wardens, Astrid doesn’t feel much, only relief at the sense of fascination this woman ignites in her. It is good to feel excitement over something—anything—again. When the woman finally states her name, it slips pleasingly into Astrid’s mouth like something delectable. Morrigan. 

xxx

Despite her fascination with Morrigan, Astrid attempts, at least for a time, to remain emotionally unavailable to all members of the party she gathers to avenge the loss at Ostagar. She notices that Morrigan, too, is emotionally unavailable, and that, for some reason, is not acceptable to her. So she finds herself asking about the witch’s childhood—solitary, unusual—and about what she loves and loathes. Morrigan, she finds, seems equally curious about her own upbringing in Skyrim, and Astrid tells her what she can—what little that is. Morrigan sees how little Astrid shares and, though she would never admit it, Astrid sees the hurt in her haunted eyes when she shuts her out. She wonders if she was ever as easy to read as the witch is. At many moments, the years that separate them do not feel perceptible, but there are fleeting seconds in which she sees the little girl in Morrigan rear her desperate head before trumping back off into the wilderness from whence she came. 

In her travels, Astrid attains several followers, but she knows they are not family, not like the one she has known. Alistair follows her reluctantly, finding her ruthless and cunning. Zevran, a fellow assassin, respects her, but she can feel that he is incapable of trusting her. She feels much the same, having learned her lessons well. Leliana, master of the bardic arts, catches her interest, but not to the extent that she catches Leliana’s. Astrid refuses the redhead’s advances, knowing that there is no way she could offer a bond such as Leliana might want. She prefers Morrigan, with her knowing looks and their wordless, effortless connection. In the Brecilian Forest, Astrid sides with the werewolves---naturally—over the elves and, though the decision disgusts her followers, they dare not contradict her, which fuels her excitement. She knows they would be lost without her leadership. The thought of the werewolves and their spectacular power makes her tremble and, alone in her tent, she reaches down to touch the wetness between her legs, able to imagine, however briefly, that her Arnbjorn is still with her, inside of her. The memory becomes so palpable that she cries out, and knows not whether the cause is pleasure or pain. 

When she opens her eyes, they’re wet, and tears are streaming down her cheeks. She feels suddenly pathetic, a feeling that only increases when looks up to see Morrigan standing at the entrance to her tent. “What are you doing here?” she demands, though she knows she does not sound as intimidating as she would like. Morrigan, thankfully, pretends not to have noticed Astrid’s emotional display which, admittedly, vanishes as quickly as it appeared. 

“Twas cold in my tent,” The raven-haired woman says, uncharacteristically playful. “I had hoped I might be more comfortable in yours.”

A wobbly heat is still pulsing within Astrid’s core, and as she looks at the beautiful woman before her, she imagines, almost, that she could be Arnbjorn, that he is beside her, about to have his way with this exquisite creature. She smiles, “Well we can’t have that.”

Astrid fucks her with reckless abandon, fucks her until she cries. She knows that Morrigan is aroused by her impressive leadership. She sees in Astrid the woman she wishes she could be--Astrid is sure of it. And, for her part, the sex, passionate as it is, makes her feel closer to Arnbjorn than she has in months. The sight of the werewolves and that pure power that defines their kind has filled her thoughts with him and, as she approaches her release, she has to bite her tongue to keep from screaming his name. 

She does not kick Morrigan out after their passion cools. Instead, she allows the witch to lay spent and satisfied in the loose cradle of her arms. Despite the mutual pleasure they have shared, Astrid senses the witch’s discomfort. “What is it?”

The witch is silent for a moment. At last, she says, “Who was it that you saw when we were making love?”

Astrid hesitates, and then laughs, but it is a laugh that lacks mirth. Her first thought is to tell her that there is no one else, but Morrigan isn’t a fool. It is part of the reason Astrid feels for her at all. 

At the sound of Astrid’s laugh, Morrigan’s back stiffens and, with the agility of a cat, she slips out of Astrid’s grasp. The other woman wishes she hadn’t, but she feels powerless to alter the outcome of their exchange. In her deep voice, which, as Astrid noticed instantly, is as luscious as Astrid’s own, Morrigan mutters, “It matters not,” before gathering her scattered articles of clothing and leaving the tent. 

xxx

For a couple of weeks, they do not speak as much. Morrigan sulks while Astrid’s other companions chatter happily. Astrid essays—more than once—to catch the witch’s eye without success. Morrigan is quiet for so long that Astrid feels a kind of overwhelming relief when, in the hall of the dwarves, the witch remarks aloud, in spite of herself, that one of the merchants is selling breathtakingly beautiful jewelry. Later, when Morrigan is in a nasty spat with Alistair about who should become king of Orzammar, Astrid slips away to buy a finely crafted hand mirror, one that reminds her of a story Morrigan had told her in the days before they had shared a bed, a story about her mother shattering just such a mirror right before the young witch’s eyes. A story intended to remind Morrigan that she should want for nothing but power. 

Though Astrid is the first to agree that power is, perhaps, the most satisfying reward life can provide, sentimentality briefly overcomes her and she drops one hundred silver on the frivolous thing. When she presents it to Morrigan some hours later, the witch is clearly stunned and, for the first time in weeks, she smiles, a smile that Astrid believes could turn the Frostback Mountains warm and bright. Tears spring to the witch’s eyes and threaten to fall, but she manages to swallow them. Astrid almost wishes she hadn’t. 

She thinks of Morrigan’s tearful eyes as they cut their way through the deep roads, and it motivates her. She wants an opportunity to protect this woman, to make her happy again. The impulse frightens her, but not as much as she knows it should. Of all the horrors she witnesses within the bowels of the deep roads, it is the repugnant broodmother that frightens her most. The creature’s origin story is one that causes her to recall her own childhood, where she too was powerlessly violated. Though they defeat Branka, Astrid is not able to dismiss the horror of the broodmother from her head. Branka, too, haunts her; Branka, the fearless leader who led her whole house—her whole family!—to their deaths. 

The evening after they gain the dwarven support, Astrid is catatonic, slumped over pitifully on the floor of her tent. Without looking up, she knows Morrigan has entered her tent, as she had that night weeks earlier. Without looking at the other woman, she tells her of her wicked uncle--how he had held her down, did his worst, changed her forever. Of how she sought power, thought that would make her feel whole again. How her family gave her purpose, and yet, in the end, she was responsible for their brutal demise. Through it all, Morrigan sits beside her, silent but utterly engaged, running her long fingers affectionately over Astrid’s back. Once the assassin has said it all, she mutters “You must find me spineless, despicable.”

Morrigan shakes her head, her long bangs fluttering like the wings of a cautious moth. “I could never,” she says simply, “You are the most formidable woman I have ever known.” Carefully, as though fearing she might be slapped, Morrigan leans forward and pulls Astrid into a kiss, one that she accepts hungrily. She knows Morrigan is not as good with words as she herself is, but that she still wants to reach her. Astrid does not know if she can be found, as she sees in herself someone already lost, but she lets Morrigan try. As the younger woman kisses her between her thighs, Astrid feels the control she always fights so desperately to maintain slip away; in its place, a delicate warmth builds within her, and she finds that it is not as terrifying as she had expected. 

When morning comes, Morrigan is still by her side. She is amorous upon waking, but also awkward, as though she does not know how to communicate with her Grey Warden ally now that she has thoroughly expressed—without verbally stating, of course—her depth of feeling. Seeing Morrgian reduced to such a vulnerable state excites Astrid. She realizes then that she loves fucking Morrigan because Morrigan is as strong and simultaneously guarded as she is. Fucking Morrigan is like fucking herself and, somehow, that is deeply satisfying. 

Morrigan offers her a gift, a beautiful ring that the mage claims will ensure that they always have a connection, no matter what life does to part them. Astrid wears the piece triumphantly, knowing it to be proof, if there ever could be, that Morrigan is in love with her. 

xxx

One month after the morning Morrigan offers her the ring, Astrid recruits Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir. If she has been given an opportunity to redeem herself through the Wardens, why not extend to this man the same courtesy? Though she has no deep personal quarrel with Loghain, she does not, initially at least, expect to become especially close to him either. Nevertheless, this quest continues to subvert her expectations and Loghain, who is impressed by her strength, tells her so one evening. It is quiet, and they have just finished a day fighting what felt like an endless horde of Darkspawn. Until this moment, Astrid was asleep on her feet, but something in Loghain’s demeanor revives her. Hadn’t Arnbjorn said what he loved most in her was her undeniable strength? To see Loghain, a great warrior, so openly taken with that same quality within her is remarkably seductive, and she takes him to her bed. With Morrigan, the sex was delicate, soft, pleasure was something the two women had to coax to life gently. With Loghain, it is overwhelmingly powerful, and she remembers how much she missed being taken by a man, especially a man with such physical prowess. It makes her feel almost whole again. 

Morrigan confronts Astrid the next day, reminds her that, while she does not believe in love truly, she will not tolerate being made to look a fool. Astrid brushes off her concern, calls her ridiculous. The pain in Morrigan’s eyes is indescribable, and Astrid does not allow herself to gaze into them for too long. 

xxx

Morrigan does not speak to her until the night before the Battle at Denerim. When she does speak, she offers Astrid a way out, a way to slay the archdemon and live as a hero. Astrid asks why she would offer such a thing. Morrigan admits, naturally, that she has her own motivations. Astrid is unsurprised to hear it, as Morrigan’s desire for power is one of the things she most loves about the witch. What startles her, however, is when Morrigan tells her, earnestly, that she does not want to see her die. She feels it then, that the other woman still loves her, that she loves her in a way that Astrid herself could never love anyone again, even the babe she knows is quickening within her womb. 

She refuses Morrigan’s offer because she knows that women like herself, women like Morrigan, should not be mothers to any children, as they lack the selfless virtue required for such a task. Besides, Astrid has no want for a new family, not when she has the opportunity to regain the one she lost. Morrigan abandons her in what appears to be a fit of rage, but Astrid knows it to be one of despair. When she takes the final blow at Ft. Drakon, euphoria threatens to drown her and, as she fades away, she hears Arnbjorn calling her name from somewhere beyond.  
xxx

Following the death of the hero of Ferelden, an unusual witch is spotted outside of Winterhold in the northernmost reaches of Skyrim. She approaches the college and asks for training in this mysterious new country that offers mages their freedom. When she is admitted for study, the other pupils observe her curiously, and, though she keeps to herself, she is the subject of much gossip due to her strange habits. Each evening, she stands out of doors on the great balcony of one the college’s round towers. This a habit she refuses to break, even if the weather is appalling. When at last the Archmage asks her why she visits the balcony at night, she answers, simply, “Because here the connection is strongest,” as she gazes intently into the blizzard beyond, privy to a world no one else can see.


End file.
